Bobby's Boys
by lifeofsnark
Summary: John drops an 8 year old Sam and a 12 year old Dean off for a few weeks at Bobby's house. Over the course of what stretched into several months Sam learns to ride a bike, Dean learns engine components, and Bobby learns to live again. Angst and fluff ensues. As usual, John comes back to ruin everything.


Bobby wandered out onto the porch when he heard tires crunching on the gravel outside. He squinted into the late April sun, a faint pounding in his temples a reminder of last night's bourbon. The Impala rode to a stop, the engine idling roughly before cutting off. Two boys spilled out of the backseat; the taller one's hair was a slightly darker shade of blonde. John slowly unfolded himself from the front while the boys grabbed bags out of the back

Bobby scratched his beard and tried to remember how old the kids were. Mary had died back in '83, so the boys were about 8 and 12. Sounded about right. John walked up the porch steps to shake Bobby's hand. "Thanks for doing this," he said gruffly. The boys stood quietly at the bottom of the steps watching their father.

He turned, addressing both of them and Bobby, his fingers playing with his keys absentmindedly. "I should be back in three or four week. Got a lead on the thing that killed your mom down south."

He walked off the porch and stood in front of the boys. The stayed where they were, looking up at their father, squinting against the sun. "You boys be good and mind Bobby. I'll call when I can."

He took a step before turning and passing a wad of bills to Bobby. It was mostly twenties with a few tens mixed in. "That outta hold 'em," he said before walking back past the boys.

Dean ran a few steps after him. "Please can I come? I'm big enough to help now," he begged.

John turned and looked into the earnest green-flecked-whisky eyes of his eldest son. "No, Dean. You'd slow me down, and I don't know what I'm getting into. Stay here, look after Sammy, and be good."

Dean slouched his shoulders and shuffled 'til he was standing by his brother again. "Well, c'mon, get your stuff in here," Bobby said gruffly as the dusty car turned out of sight. He led the boys upstairs and showed them each to a small room. Dean's had a shelf full of musty old books and weird items that at first glance looked like trash, but he didn't mind. He hadn't had his own room since his mom died. He followed Bobby down the hall to see Sam's room. It had a filing cabinet and books too, but Sam's little face just lit up like it was his Christmas and birthday rolled into one. Sam had never had a room to himself.

"You eat yet?" Bobby asked, straight to the point.

Sam shook his head, and Dean replied, "No, Mr. Singer," his voice only slightly sullen.

"Guess I'll go put something together," he grumbled, heading down the stairs.

Forty five minutes Bobby knocked back his second bourbon of the night while he watched Dean shovel another huge helping of dry meatloaf onto his plate. _Looks like I've found someone who will eat my cooking_ Bobby commented to himself, watching as Dean wolfed down his second helping of the admittedly awful food. Sam ate his politely, not even making a face at the offering, before asking if he could leave the table.

"Sure, kid" Bobby answered.

In a few minutes Sam was back. "We're gonna go to school here, right?"

Bobby sighed. School. Despite the hassle of getting them enrolled, Bobby knew it would only be worse if he kept them out- social services would catch up with them sooner or later. "Yeah, kid but not tomorrow. Gotta sort out the paperwork." He poured another drink at the thought.

"Awesome," said Dean around a mouthful of food. Bobby went into the living room to watch jeopardy on the fuzzy old television set. Soon he heard the boys moving around upstairs, and started up the steps when he heard them talking.

"C'mon Sammy, time to take your bath."

"But I don't have to go anywhere tomorrow," Sam's higher voice protested.

"You think I care? C'mon, hurry up so I can brush my teeth."

Bobby went back downstairs. Seemed like Dean had it under control.

Several hours later, when the windows were dark and the house silent, Bobby swayed his way upstairs. He wasn't rip-roaring, blackout drunk, he just felt good. In some misplaced sentiment or instinct, he stopped outside Dean's room and cracked the door. The bed hadn't been touched, but the pillow was missing.

Bobby started to get hot. That little shit, thinking he could take advantage of Bobby and just run- the anger slipped away when he opened the door to Sam's room. Dean was laying on the floor directly beside the little twin bed that held Sam, his freckled forearm flung over his eyes. For the next five nights, that is how he found the brothers- sound asleep, side-by-side, no more able to sleep alone in a strange new place than they were able to stop breathing.

Dean continued to eat like a wild thing, scarfing down anything that Bobby would put in front of him, burnt or not. To top it all off, Bobby found a stash of snacks in Dean's room when he went in looking for a book on Egyptian mythology. "What is this, Dean?" he asked, walking into the room where Sam and Dean were watching Scooby Doo. Dean was rolling his eyes at the carton antics.

He turned to face Bobby. "Uh… I was just storing them up there, in case I got hungry."

"Ain't I feeding you enough boy?" Bobby asked, grouchy in his confusion. The boy ate more than some full grown men, and Bobby had never tried to prevent him from having seconds- ah.

"You get hungry a lot, kid?" he asked, wondering just how often Dean went without food. Bobby flicked his eyes to Sam; he was willing to bet his eyeteeth that when John went away on trips Sam got the most of the food. Lord knows the eighty seven dollars John had left with him wouldn't feed two boys for a month.

He dropped the stash on Dean's lap. "Okay, kid. That's fine." If Dean felt safer with a food reserve, who was he to stop him. Hell, he had a backup bottle of booze stored under his thermal underwear in a trunk down here for the same reason.

With only a bit of wheedling, he managed to get the secretary at the school to admit Sam and Dean. They started the next Monday, and Bobby was shocked when they were standing by the front door, clean and fed and dressed, when Bobby came down the stairs. "Bus stop's at the end of the road," he said, his voice scratchy with sleep. The boys tromped down the stairs and across the yard.

The next morning Bobby was up earlier. He was still getting dressed when he heard light footsteps cross the hall and knock at Dean's door. It opened, and then he heard Sam, "C'mon Dean, we gotta get up for school." Dean's feet thumped onto the old wood floor before he wandered into the bathroom, still talking to his brother.

"I don't know why you like school so much, Sam. We're never going to need to know half of this anyway."

Despite the complaints, they were ready on time. Bobby stood in the kitchen looking at him. They looked back. He felt like he was forgetting something. "Lunch?" he asked, finally.

They shrugged in unison. Jesus, was there nothing these kids didn't do together?"

Bobby fumbled for some cash and shoved it at Dean. "Buy something with this. You can pack a lunch tomorrow." And here he'd been worried about his ability to watch these kids. He shouldn't have been worried, they pretty much watched themselves.

A few days later Sam brought home a permission slip for the end of year field trip. Bobby only found out about it because he walked in on Sam asking Dean to sign it. "But why not? It says parent or guardian, you guard me, you can sign it."

Dean heaved a sigh far too worldly for his twelve years. "I can't. Only a grown up can sign that, otherwise I would."

Bobby walked in and scanned the paper. Sam looked nervous. "You'll like the museum," he told the floppy-haired eight year old. "It's perfect for little brains like you."

It hadn't taken him long to learn that school was one of the only things the boys really disagreed on. Sam came home from school to do his homework on the scarred and stained table. Dean, who didn't get home from middle school wrestling practice until almost dinner, "did his homework" in the bedroom. It had only taken a week for his history teacher to call Bobby- one of the side effects of living in a small town- and now Dean had to do his homework at the table just like Sam.

When he'd confronted Dean about his schoolwork, the boy had tried to brush him off. "You aren't my father," he said sullenly.

"Damn right I ain't your father!" Bobby had yelled. "I'd be ashamed to see a mind like yours going to waste, never doing your work! You're living in my house, eating my food. You play by my rules, kid."

They didn't speak about it again.

One afternoon Dean slammed into the house, the storm door smacking the jam behind him. "Hey, where's Sam?" he asked. It was the first thing he asked when he got home, every single day.

"Outside messin' around." Bobby grumbled. This ritual he was looking up for Rufus was almost impossible to translate. Dean stomped up the stairs. "Stop making so much noise!" he hollered up the stairs. Having boys around meant he never got any goddamn peace.

Weekends fell into a routine. Sam would play outside with Dean for a while before he went inside to read through Bobby's library. Bobby had had to hide most of the really dark books on the top shelves- there were some things even a hunter's kid shouldn't have to know, he decided. Dean spent the first few weekends practicing hunting skills. He made rock salt rounds for the shotgun, hung up cardboard for target practice, and blessing holy water with a concentration he never used on his schoolwork. When he found a book about demon possession, he practiced making devil's traps out of paint, rocks, whatever he found around.

April 30 found Dean shuffling awkwardly in front of the television. "What is it, kid?" asked Bobby, savoring his first sip of scotch.

"Could you drive me to the mall tomorrow?"

"What? Why? What do you want there?" Did preteen boys hang out at malls now?

"I just want to go."

"Well, I ain't driving you 'til you give me a good reason."

"Sam's birthday is in two days and I want to get him something."

"Balls."

They were in the middle of a sporting goods store when Bobby caught Dean shoving something in his hoodie pocket.

"Dean." Bobby tugged the item from him- it turned out to be a water bottle. He plunked it on a nearby shelf and bent down to hold his face level with Dean's. "Listen, kid. You can steal when you are hungry, or if it's the only way to solve a case. This ain't that, and taking stuff ain't okay." Dean nodded, his eyes averted. Bobby felt a little tug at his heart- this kid loved his brother more than anyone he'd ever known had loved someone else.

They got Sam a soccer ball. Dean watched Sam pull the newspaper off of it and grin. He flew across the room to hug his brother before shyly offering a hug to Bobby. "Thank you, Mr. Singer," he said politely.

"Call me Bobby," he said gruffly, fulfilled in a way that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Sam looked down at the shiny ball, not yet marred with footprints and grass stains. "This is just like the normal kids!" he crowed. "If dad remembers our birthdays, he mostly gets us a snack or hunting stuff."

He thundered out of the house, kicking around the ball. Dean stood up awkwardly, made brief eye contact with Bobby, mumbled a thank you, and then took off after his brother. He heard happy shouts coming from the yard not long after that.

Bobby sighed. These damn kids were getting to him. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number John left. When it went to voicemail, Bobby said, "Look, it's Sam's birthday. Could you just call so you can talk with them for a second? It's been almost three weeks." He snapped the phone shut.

John didn't call back. He didn't call for almost a month after.

School let out for the summer the first week in June, and suddenly Bobby was dealing with two energetic boys twenty-four hours a day. He found an old, rusted up bicycle in the junkyard and fixed it up, giving it a new coat of paint and everything. As he sat there, brushing lacquer onto the old metal, now devoid of rust, he wondered why the hell he was bothering.

"What the hell do you mean you can't ride a bicycle?" he asked, looking down at Sam's tan little face. Ten minutes later he found himself running along beside the bike, his hand on the seat, Sam's legs stretching down to the pedals.

Thirty minutes later Bobby was panting, but taking his hand off the seat for short periods of time.

A day later Bobby watched Sam roll down the edge of the street by himself, a huge grin creating deep dimples in his cheek. Bobby felt good, really good- he felt better now, sober, than he had in almost a decade.

Dean has been practicing with his shotgun less and less, until it finally was left alone for a full week. Bobby doesn't mention it- he still has Sam's exclamation of, "-like _normal _kids!" ringing in his ears.

John called that first week of summer break to let Bobby know he would be on the road a while longer. When Bobby offered to let John talk to one of the boys, he declined and ended the call. _Idjit._ The fury at this act surprised Bobby- he spent the rest of the day in the junkyard and ignored Dean's request to take them swimming. Eventually his anger with John faded away, along with the evening light.

The next day, out of guilt, swimming they went. Apparently Sam couldn't do that either, so Dean taught him, paddling from one end of the pond to the other. Sam was clumsily keeping his head above water before the afternoon was done.

Another family pulled in late in the day. "Those your boys?" the mother asked, nodding towards Sam and Dean. Bobby lowered his beer, but Dean called out, "No, he's just watching us," before he could answer.

"Oh. That's nice," the woman smiled before going to rub sunscreen on her own kids.

Damn. Sunscreen.

Both the boys were burned, and Bobby was kicking himself. They didn't act like they were sore, in fact they wanted to go swimming again tomorrow. Bobby had to tell them no- he was fixing a car for a client, and only had a few more days to finish it.

The next day, while Bobby was under a red 1964 Ford Galaxie, Dean came out and sat on the workbench, his legs swinging. "I'm bored," he said finally. Bobby slid out from under the car and wiped his hands on a greasy rag.

"You can clean up that bench, then," Bobby replied calmly.

It wasn't fifteen minutes before Dean was asking if he could help on the car. Bobby hid a grin and began to narrate what he was doing. Before the week was out Dean knew what a lug nut was, the difference between a wrench and a socket wrench, the difference between pliers and needle-nose pliers, and could identify all of the major systems in an engine. For the rest of the summer he was a fixture in the garage; asking questions and jumping to help.

In a lull one warm afternoon, just after a client had come to pick up their car, Dean said, "Maybe I'll be a mechanic when I'm older. Cars are great; they're like big puzzles."

Bobby just hmmed and nodded. "It's a good skill to have. You can work on the Impala when your daddy gets back; Lord knows he don't know Jack shit about that car." Dean just nodded. Bobby knew John would never let this boy have a normal life- he was already bragging about Dean's hunting instincts- but Bobby let him have his dream.

One dusky Wednesday evening Sam fell of his bike; when his wrist connected with the ground there was an ominous pop. Tears ran down his face, and he called out for Dean; over and over he yelled Dean's name until his brother made it to his side. Bobby's heart ached- in times of trouble, these boys depended entirely on each other. Sam didn't cry for his mama or his father. He wanted Dean. Dean was the embodiment of comfort and safety to Sam.

One trip to the ER and a set of X-rays later, Sam was back home with a soft splint and a fractured wrist. Little did they know that that would be Sam's first trip to the hospital, and it would be the only time he went for a non-hunting injury. In the flurry of paperwork, a nurse had asked, "These your boys?" and without missing a beat, Dean replied in the affirmative. Bobby ducked his head to hide his smile. The bottle of bourbon remained in the kitchen, untouched.

Back in that golden summer, long before any of them knew what fate held in store, Dean looked after his brother. He brought him snacks and kept him company when he couldn't play outside, constantly making Sam laugh until his sides hurt. Once again Bobby had called John to let him know about Sam's arm, and once again John failed to reply. Bobby heard Sam ask, "Are we living with Bobby now?"

Dean didn't answer.

The last Sunday of June was father's day, and it was a tense day in the Singer house. After lunch, Sam and Dean appeared in the kitchen with a blob wrapped in newspaper and duct tape. Without a word they set it on the kitchen table and ran outside, kicking Sam's (now grubby) soccer ball around the yard.

Bobby tore off the paper. It was a baseball hat, navy blue brim and front, a steel grey on the sides and back. He wore it almost every day for the rest of his life. The boys didn't say happy father's day; it wouldn't have felt right if they had. But this, this was perfect.

Three days after father's day, John called to announce that he was on the way to pick up the boys. It was a solemn dinner, and Bobby noticed Dean smuggling a grocery bag of food up the stairs. It broke his damn heart. He knew John wouldn't let the boys stay, even if he asked- he wanted them raised up hunters, ready to take on the fight when they were old enough. _That ain't no life for a kid._

Before bed, Bobby made Sam and Dean each recite both of his phone numbers over and over. The next morning, when they silently carried down their duffel bags, he made them recite the digits again.

John arrived just before lunch, and Sam clung to Bobby's shirt. "Can we stay with Bobby? We promise to be good."

"Get in the car, Sam," John said by way of a greeting. Dean hugged Bobby briefly before hefting his bag and Sam's. Sam hugged Bobby tightly before silently, slowly, following Dean out to the Impala, toes kicking up dust. Bobby heard the trunk slam, followed by both passenger doors.

"Thanks for doing that," John commented to Bobby. "I know they can be handfuls, I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"Wasn't any trouble at all," Bobby all but growled.

"I didn't mean to be gone so long, but I got tangled up with a vampire hunter and then I had a good lead." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and started pulling out bills. "This should about cover it."

Bobby stepped backwards. "Keep it and feed your damn kids," he dictated, spitting out the consonants. Minutes later the car crunched down the gravel driveway, and Bobby's spirit sunk inside of him. He wandered into the living room to spot Sam's soccer ball tucked in the corner. He hadn't take it, and Bobby knew why- a kid living on the road had nowhere to play. Holding the ball against his hip, Bobby poured himself a drink.

And then another.

The boys stay with him again, here and there, over the years. He gets several weekends with them, sometimes part of a school break. Each time they visit they fall into the routine again, happily, comfortably. Dean gets better and better with cars, he could be taking on clients of his own by the time he was sixteen.

But instead, one year later, Dean drops out of high school. John mentioned it in passing when he called with a question- and Bobby closed his eyes, mourning the lost education of a brilliant boy. He knew, without asking, why Dean had done it: John needed a hunting partner, and the best way to keep Sam in school was for Dean to drop out. Dean was with Bobby the day of the local high school graduation, and he was too quiet all day.

When Sam left for Stanford he still called Bobby to check in. Bobby would then call Dean and update him, urging him to call Sam himself. Each time Dean's voice would deepen a little, sadness slowing his words. "No, Sammy made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the life, Bobby. He didn't want to wonder if we'd come home dead. I'm in the life, and he doesn't want to talk to me."

Sam's years at Stanford were some of the longest of Bobby's life. He knew both brothers were hurting, knew it better than anyone else. He was secretly pleased when the boys were hunting together again- he wasn't happy that they were hunting, he was just thrilled that the brothers Winchester were back where they belonged. Together.

After that golden spring and summer together Bobby called Sam and Dean on their birthday every year for the rest of his life. Even when Dean was in hell he called his old cell and left a message, breaking into drunken tears at the end. He didn't drink nearly as much after John reclaimed his boys- he had something, someone, to live for, even if they weren't with him. When Dean was in hell he hit the bottle, same when Sam fell into the pit, but he pulled himself out each time. He still had a son to love.

Ever year on father's day the boys would call him. They never came out and said the words "Happy Father's Day," but they didn't need to. They remembered, and they came to him when they could.

But that day, the day the Impala carried the boys away from him, Bobby didn't know any of that. He didn't know if they would come back. He didn't know that he would become a ghost to continue watching out for them from death. He didn't know that after he died the boys would refer to him as their surrogate father. Bobby didn't know that the boys would save him, him over their own father, from hell.

And after being saved from hell Bobby would walk through the door to his heaven and find twelve year old Dean and eight year old Sam smiling at him from the lumpy couch, a Chuck Norris Western playing in the background. Bobby's heaven was that perfect summer with his boys long before any of them sold their soul or met the devil.

Bobby wasn't in his heaven yet. Bobby was missing his boys.


End file.
